Hold On
by RaspieAspie
Summary: Endeavour is struggling with the aftermath of his hallucinogen poisoning at the hands of Wildwood groupie Emma. When Thursday takes him under his wing, he finds that things are far worse for his young bagman than they first appeared.


You sure he should be here?" Strange murmured, "he looks ready to do a header into the waste paper bin."

The sergeant stood in the bullpen beside DI Thursday as they both took in the sight of Morse at his desk. The DC sat with a vacant expression on his face as he stared unseeing out the window. The pen in his right hand clicked absently in a slow rhythm. He looked like an LP in a record player with the needle out of the groove; spinning, but empty and silent.

Thursday glanced over at Strange in response to his remark. "He's fine," he said, a touch more defensively than he meant, "he's just thinking is all, you know how he gets."

Strange looked at Thursday with an expression of mild incredulity.

"About your business then Sergeant," Thursday said pointedly, indicating that the matter was closed.

Strange ducked his head deferentially. "Sir," he mumbled as he shuffled off.

Thursday's firm expression slipped as he turned back to his bagman and his face reflected the concern he'd been concealing. It had been a week since Morse had been medically cleared to return to duty after his hallucinogen-induced poisoning, and though he was sound in body, his mind was another story.

Fred's mind returned to the events of that terrible day, how useless and helpless he'd felt, pleading empty soothing words as his friend writhed on the floor, drenched in sweat and sobbing as he swatted at invisible demons. He hadn't had the heart to ask what Morse had seen, and Morse for his part, had not divulged anything.

What the young man didn't say in words however, was betrayed by his actions. He was jumpy and nervous again, as he'd been after the Coke-Norris case. He started and flinched at every sudden sound; his clothes hung off his lithe frame, betraying his infrequent eating; and the dark rings under his eyes showed how little he'd been sleeping.

Slowly Thursday approached the desk, but Morse remained unaware of his presence.

"Morse," Thursday prodded. No response.

"Morse?" he tried again.

"Morse!" Morse jumped and flinched at the sound, dropping his pen. He took a deep breath and exhaled heavily when he saw it was just Thursday.

"It's lunch time," Thursday remarked, ignoring Morse's fright, "you coming?" he asked, angling his head towards the door.

Morse wordlessly got up from his desk and pulled his coat off the back of his chair.

"Wonder what Win's got for me today," Thursday said amiably, patting the bulge in his coat pocket as he took his hat from the stand.

"Cheese and pickle," Morse murmured absently.

Thursday glanced uncertainly at his bagman. "That was yesterday," he said quietly, "today is Tuesday."

Morse blinked, "Is it?" he asked, "Oh... yes, I suppose it is."

...

"Morse, are you all right?" Thursday asked as he unwrapped his sandwich at their table in the noisy bar.

Morse looked up from his ale and scowled defensively. "I'm fine, why wouldn't I be?" he asked, swallowing a mouthful of foam.

Thursday sighed. "Hallucinogens are no small thing Morse, it would only be natural if it took you some time to get back in fighting shape."

Morse looked away angrily. "Medical cleared me," he said flatly.

"I know," Thursday agreed, "all I'm saying is sometimes it's less about the body and more about the mind. I don't know what you saw in there lad, but I know it would've made the devil's toes curl, whatever it was."

"What do you know of it?" Morse snapped hotly, anger and fear flashing in his blue eyes as he turned to fix his DI with an icy glare.

Thursday had had enough of Morse's infuriating evasiveness, "I know I was there holding you while you screamed yourself hoarse and cried yourself sick," he said, his temper and volume rising. "I know I rocked you like I did so many injured and dying boys on the front while you huddled there soaked in your own sweat and vomit and god knows what else. I know you weren't the only one seeing horrific things in your mind that day; I thought I'd lost you Morse, that you'd be in a strait jacket or on DeBryn's slab."

Morse's scowl remained fixed, but he stayed silent. He hadn't considered what it was like for Thursday to have to watch somebody he cared about go through that.

Thursday sighed as his temper cooled. He looked Morse over. "When was the last time you ate?" he asked, glancing at his bagman's half-full glass of ale.

Morse dropped his gaze to the table top and gave a halfhearted shrug.

"Slept?" Thursday prodded.

Morse turned his head away.

"Right," Thursday said tersely, "you're coming home with me tonight. No arguments!" he interrupted as Morse opened his mouth to protest. "You're no good to me like this, you need a good meal and a proper kip, and you'll stay with Win and I until I can trust you to look after yourself properly."

"I don't have time for this, we're in the middle of a case!" Morse snapped, resentful of being treated like a child.

"You'll do as I say or you're off this case and on sick leave," Thursday said firmly.

Morse pursed his lips in frustration, but knew better than to argue. Thursday was a man of his word.

...

That evening, Thursday instructed Morse to drive them back to Morse's flat.

"Why?" Morse demanded petulantly.

"So you can collect whatever you need to be away from home for a few days," Thursday responded.

Morse grit his teeth, "I told you I'm fine, I don't need or want to go home with you!"

"Well that's tough," Thursday said brusquely, "I already told Win you're coming, and I'll not have you upset her by going AWOL."

Morse exhaled sharply through his nose. "One night only," he said.

"We'll see," Thursday replied, looking out his window.

Morse arrived at his flat, the drive having been taken in silence. "I won't be a minute," he mumbled, climbing out of the car. He didn't want Thursday to see what a state his place was in.

Inside, he stepped over dirty clothes strewn on the floor, kicking aside a few glass scotch bottles that had slid out of the overflowing dustbin. He grabbed a rucksack from the almost-empty closet and stuffed his pajamas, toothbrush, razor, a clean shirt, his current case files, and two of his favourite records haphazardly into it. He returned a moment later to the car and tossed his bag into the backseat.

Win was at the door to greet them when they arrived at the Thursday residence. She held Morse at arm's length and looked him over, tutting with disapproval. "You look just dreadful dear," she scolded, "you look like you've not seen a proper meal in an age."

Morse smiled weakly, but didn't respond.

"Well come in both of you and put your feet up," Win said, pecking Thursday on the cheek as he passed her through the threshold. "I've got the kettle on, tea won't be a minute."

"It's very good of you to let me stay with you Mrs. Thursday," Morse said, easing himself onto the settee in the living room.

"Oh nonsense, you're practically family now dear, what with the number of times you've kept my Fred safe out there. And how many times must I tell you? Call me Win!"

Morse gave an acquiescing smile as she bustled off to the kitchen.

Dinner was delicious, and Morse didn't refuse when Win provided him with seconds, then thirds, unprompted. He ignored the knowing smirks Thursday kept flashing his way and focused his attention on his shepherd's pie.

After being chased out of the dining room for trying to help Win tidy away the dishes, Morse pulled his case files and one of his records from the rucksack that had been put in Sam's bedroom. He stuck his head into the living room where Thursday was smoking his pipe. "Sorry to be a bother sir, but do you have a record player I could borrow?" he asked.

Thursday looked at him from the settee and puffed out a cloud of smoke. "No," he said, standing up and walking towards Morse, "but I do have a bed and some toothpaste you can borrow." He took the case files from Morse's hand, ignoring the stiff glare the DC was giving him.

"It's not even half eight, I'm not tired," Morse protested, but the yawn that followed betrayed him.

"Come on," Thursday said, ignoring him as he walked towards the stairs, "I've got a new tube you can use."

Morse sighed, but didn't protest.

Two hours later when Win and Thursday made their own way to bed, Thursday poked his head into Sam's room to check on Morse. He smiled and shook his head at the sight that greeted him. The DC lay facedown, strewn haphazardly across the bed in his vest and pyjama pants, one hand dangling over the edge clutching his record loosely.

Thursday approached silently and slid the record from the young man's fingers, laying it on the bedside table. He watched Morse's face, still and calm in a way he never saw when his bagman was awake. Thursday was reminded fondly of the day he'd brought Morse home to rest after he'd been shot at the Bodleian, how small and vulnerable he'd looked as the older man draped his coat over him once he'd succumbed to exhaustion on the settee.

Softly so as not to wake him, Thursday pulled the blankets up over Morse's bare, pale shoulders, tucking them in around him. He gave his friend one last look, then slipped quietly out the door.

...

Thursday woke in the dark to shrill shouts down the hall. Win stirred beside him as he sat up, swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stuffed his feet into his slippers.

"Fred? What's wrong?" Win asked, anxiety lacing her voice even as it was thick with sleep.

"Nothing to worry about, it's just Morse, go back to sleep," Thursday said. He'd known from the first cry exactly what the noise had been; Morse's distinctive screams had been seared into his memory ever since the day of the poisoning.

"Is he all right?" Win asked, sitting up.

"I'm sure it's just a nightmare, I'll take care of it and be back in a minute," Thursday said, standing up.

"Poor dear," Win said pityingly, "I'll come with you, see if I can help."

Thursday knew better than to argue with his wife, and led the way down the dark corridor as the screams grew louder.

Swiftly Thursday crossed the room and snapped on the bedside lamp. Morse's thrashing profile was illuminated as he twisted himself in the blankets and clenched the pillow. His face was contorted in a picture of pain and terror as he moaned unintelligibly. His vest and hair were drenched in sweat, and, Thursday noted regretfully, his sheets and trousers were soaked.

Having surveyed the scene, Thursday grasped Morse's shoulder and shook it firmly. "Morse, Morse wake up, you're having a bad dream, Morse!"

Morse cried out with fear as he tried, half-asleep, to escape Thursday's touch.

"It's all right Morse, it's all right, it's just me, it's just Fred, you're all right," Thursday pleaded, much as he had done when he'd found Morse curled up tight against the wall, hallucinating violently.

Morse's panicked thrashing slowed as he shook off the fog of sleep. He blinked, gasping for breath. "Fred," he panted, looking like he might cry.

"That's right son," Thursday said soothingly, "that's right, it's Fred, you're safe now. I've got you."

Morse stared at Thursday for a few seconds, then suddenly his face crumpled as he started to cry, hard and silent.

Thursday felt Win's hand touch his shoulder as he assessed his options. He didn't want to embarrass Morse any further, but he couldn't just leave him alone like this. It also appeared that Morse had yet to notice the state of his trousers and bedsheets, which would need stripping and changing.

Thursday acted quickly. Sitting down on a dry part of the bed, he grasped Morse firmly by both shoulders and pulled him into a rough hug. "All right lad, easy does it," he murmured, "you're all right now, just had a bit of a fright is all." He rocked Morse slowly and felt the younger man's thin, bony frame relax into him as it shook, wracked with painful sobs.

"I-I'm sorry sir," Morse sputtered weakly, rubbing roughly at his tear-streaked face with one hand.

"Nothing to be sorry about," Thursday said calmly as he continued the rhythmic movement.

The two of them stayed embraced upon the bed for a few more minutes before the last of Morse's tears petered out.

"There now, better?" Thursday asked.

Morse nodded silently, his head curled protectively into Thursday's chest. "I-I'm so sorry Mrs. — Win," he murmured miserably.

"Don't be silly dear," Win said kindly, "Fred's right, you've nothing to be apologising for, now come on then, let's get you out of those wet things before you catch your death of cold. Fred can lend you some pyjamas can't you Fred?"

Bless dear Win, Thursday thought, sliding that awkward part of the conversation in so smoothly.

Morse looked at Win with confusion, then down at his lap as understanding dawned. Hurriedly he tossed the blankets back and stared in horror at the dark stain on the cream sheet. His eyes filled with tears again as he clapped a hand to his mouth and shook his head in disbelief. "I-oh Jesus I-I'm so sorry, I don't — I mean, I didn't think — not here," he stammered thickly as the tears rushed down his cheeks anew.

Not here? Thursday thought. Did that mean it had happened before? Just how much was Morse keeping from him? He looked at his bagman, who seemed, if it were possible, to have gotten even smaller as he shrank in shame. "It's all right lad, nothing to get upset about, I saw it all the time during the war. Nightmares can do funny things to a person. Come on," he said, standing up, "I've got some clean trousers you can wear, and you can wash up in the bathroom down the hall."

"But what about..." Morse gestured weakly at the linens.

"Don't worry about a thing dear, I'll take care of everything," Win smiled kindly.

Morse's face flushed bright red, "Oh no, Mrs. Thursday I couldn't possibly — I, please..." he begged, reaching out for the sheets that Win was already bundling into her arms.

"Nonsense, I'm a mother and a trained nurse, remember? This is nothing I haven't seen a hundred times before. Now you go along with Fred, after a good wash and some cocoa you'll feel right as rain," Win patted Morse's cheek once and disappeared into the hall.

Morse wanted to crawl into a hole and never emerge. Wetting the bed at his DI's house was bad enough, but having dear Mrs. Thursday clean up after him was almost more than he could bear. He dropped his head and clenched his fists, willing this whole night to end.

"You're all right lad," Thursday said again as he clapped Morse affectionately on the shoulder. "Follow me." He turned and left before Morse had a chance to respond.

Morse stood shivering in the bathroom as Thursday disappeared back into his bedroom. He looked around at the paisley yellow walls in an effort to distract himself from the unpleasant clamminess of the fabric sticking to his skin, and the burning humiliation that scorched him from the inside.

A few moments later, Thursday returned holding a neatly folded pair of green and white striped pyjamas and a new bar of soap still in its wrapper. "Right then, I'll leave you to it, shout if you need anything," he said, putting everything down beside the sink.

Morse nodded and tried to smile in thanks, but truthfully his throat was aching with the size of the lump that had formed there. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been so well cared for, not since his mother's death he was certain.

Under the shower's hot spray, Morse closed his eyes and felt his muscles unclench. He let the water run over his upturned face, washing away the sweat and grime, as well as the remnants of his nightmare. The smell of the soap soothed Morse's aching body as he lathered it over himself. Lavender and honey.

Finally the last of the hot water drained away, and Morse stepped out onto the green shag bath mat, wrapping a towel around his waist. He emerged some moments later draped in Thursday's pyjamas. The sleeves hung past his hands, the trouser legs covered his feet, and he had to cinch the drawstring so tight that the ends dangled by his knees.

Thursday stepped out of his bedroom and sized Morse up. "You'll do," he said, "though it looks like I'll have to get back on that diet, if that drawstring is anything to go by. Come on, Win's got cocoa on the stove." He shuffled off as Morse followed behind. Despite his exhaustion, he wasn't ready to go back to sleep yet.

Morse traipsed down the stairs, trying not to trip over his trousers. The smell of warm chocolate greeted him as he entered the kitchen and he inhaled deeply.

"Here you are then," Win said, ladling some of the steaming chocolate into a mug from a pan on the stove.

Morse accepted it, not quite able to look Win in the eye. His cheeks burned at the memory of what she'd done for him. "Thank you very much," he murmured to the floor, "and... I'm so sorry again for..."

Win walked up to him and placed a gentle hand on his cheek. "It's nothing Endeavour, I promise, really. You mustn't be so hard on yourself." She looked up at him as he started a little at her use of his given name. "You and Fred go through so much, see so many terrible things, it's a wonder you can sleep at all." She gave him a sad smile and patted his cheek once more. "Come on then, let's go through before it gets cold."

Thursday was already at the table nursing his own mug when Morse entered. They sat in an easy silence for several minutes before Win asked, "Would you like to talk about it dear? Your dream I mean. It always made Joanie and Sam feel better when they had nightmares."

"He's not a child Winnie," Thursday chided gently.

Morse tried to smile as the lump choked him once more. His eyes stung threateningly and he swallowed a scalding mouthful of cocoa in an effort to buy a moment to pull himself together. "Thank you Mrs. Thursday, you're very kind, but I won't if it's all the same," he said.

Win just gave him another sad smile.

Twenty minutes later Thursday stood up, holding his empty mug. "Right, I suppose it's time we all try to get some more shut-eye," he said, startling Morse who was in the process of falling asleep face first in his drink.

It was a testament to the extent of his exhaustion that Morse didn't protest. He carried his half-empty cup to the sink, bade everyone good night, and dragged himself back to Sam's room. There, he found the bed freshly made up with soft white flannel sheets and a clean new duvet. The tears spilled over again as he sank onto the bed and buried his face in the pillow, breathing in the delicate flowery scent of Win's washing powder. He didn't know why he was so sad, just, he supposed, that the kindness he received from Thursday and Win brought the lonely isolation of his day to day existence into sharp relief. Far sharper than he was able to manage with so little sleep. Eventually the tears slowed, and Morse slipped into the blackness of an empty slumber.

...

The next morning, Morse was introduced to a concept with which his acquaintance had long since fallen away; breakfast.

"What'll you have to eat Morse?" Win asked, bustling about the kitchen in her dressing gown.

"Oh, just tea would be lovely, thank you," Morse said, trying to hide a yawn behind his hand.

Win looked at him with a disapproving eyebrow raised. "What will you have to EAT Morse?" she repeated.

Morse sighed, "Perhaps just some toast then," he said.

Win grabbed a plate from the drying rack and plonked three slices of toast fresh from the toaster onto it. "Jam and butter on the table," she gave him a firm look, "if you don't eat them all I shall know, mother's intuition."

Morse smiled and accepted the food, carrying it into the dining room.

...

The drive to the station that morning was taut with anticipation. Morse could sense that Thursday wanted to say something, but he remained silent, fidgeting with his pipe as he looked restlessly out the window.

"What?" Morse finally asked tersely.

"What do you mean?" Thursday asked.

"Don't play obtuse with me, you're itching to say something, now what is it?" Morse demanded.

Thursday sighed and looked down at his pipe, examining the scorch marks in the bowl as if seeing them for the first time. Finally he said, "I don't want you getting defensive or upset now, I'm only asking because I care about your wellbeing, understand?"

"Asking what?" Morse asked unnecessarily.

Thursday glanced at him with some annoyance. "Now who's being obtuse? I'm talking about last night. Does that sort of thing happen often? The nightmares and the, uh —"

"I get it," Morse interrupted quickly, his cheeks on fire. He took a deep breath and blew it out slowly, puffing up his cheeks. "The nightmares happen all the time, they've been around in some form or another for as long as I can remember, since I was a boy." Morse paused uncomfortably and cleared his throat. "The um... other thing. That's newer, started a few days after... everything that happened in the Wildwood case."

Thursday nodded thoughtfully. "Does it happen every night?" he asked quietly.

Morse tightened his grip on the steering wheel and swallowed, but said nothing.

Thursday sighed heavily.

...

"Morning matey," Strange smiled as Morse and Thursday walked through the door. "Sir," he nodded at the DI. "You're looking much better than you did yesterday," Strange remarked as Morse sat down at his desk, "not so peaky, you looked dead on your feet... well, this whole past week frankly. Good to see you doing better."

"Mm," Morse murmured, not looking up from his typewriter. He didn't have to turn around to sense the smirk on Thursday's face as he lingered in the door to his office.

That afternoon they pulled up at the pub, and Morse made to climb out of the car, but as he reached for the handle Thursday suddenly laid a hand on his forearm.

"Morse, before we go in," he paused and reached into his coat pocket, "there's... something I want to show you." He withdrew a worn bit of paper and handed it to his bagman.

Morse unfolded it. It was a photograph, a small black and white print. Three men in British military uniforms stood against a backdrop of lush African jungle. They were smiling and laughing as they looked at the camera, their arms slung around each other's shoulders. Morse squinted at the dark-haired man in the middle. He looked to be in his mid to late thirties, and in his eyes there was a familiar warmth. "Is that you sir?" Morse asked.

"Mm," Thursday affirmed, "and that," he pointed to the sandy-haired boy on his younger self's right, "is Jordie Ainsley. He was just a boy, only twenty-nine when that was taken in '43."

Morse bristled slightly and bit his tongue to keep from pointing out that he was twenty-nine, and was by no means "just a boy". Instead he asked, "Why are you telling me about him sir?"

Thursday looked at the picture for a moment, then sighed. "Jordie was a brave lad, never hesitated to leap in at the first sign of danger," Thursday chuckled, "got himself raked over the coals more than once for his "creative interpretation" of orders he thought were cowardly or unnecessarily cautious." Thursday paused and raised a vaguely amused, knowing eyebrow at Morse, who flashed an appropriately sheepish smile.

Thursday's face lapsed back into a more serious expression as he continued, "No one ever doubted Jordie's bravery, he was even awarded the George cross at the end of the war in '45." Morse remained silent, and his friend pressed on. "Jordie and I had special permission from our squad sergeant to always be on watch and rest rotation together, because Jordie... didn't do so well with nighttime. He had nightmares, couldn't sleep in the dark. Most nights he wet his bed, and he was finally medically discharged with battle fatigue in December of '44, when his flashbacks started making him a danger to his squad mates."

Morse sat in a stiff, uneasy silence, staring steadfastly at the image in his hand so as to avoid looking at the DI. "What's your point?" he asked tightly.

Thursday sighed again as he took the photograph from Morse's rigid grip. "There's nothing wrong with you Morse. You're not weak, not broken or a coward. You've been through something inhumanly awful... and it's okay to not be okay."

Morse's throat constricted painfully, and he struggled to breathe behind the lump that had formed there. He clenched his hands into fists and stared out his side window, trying to steady his breathing as his vision blurred.

"Morse?" Thursday said quietly.

Morse didn't trust himself to say anything, and he remained motionless as the tears gathered thickly and slid down both cheeks.

"Morse," Thursday repeated softly, "talk to me." He rested a hand on Morse's shoulder and felt the young man stiffen under his touch.

Morse shook his head roughly, still looking fixedly away from the DI. His shoulders shuddered once under the weight of a silent sob, and he felt the last of his resolve crumbling.

Thursday's heart ached for the boy who was young enough to be his son. He shifted his hand to Morse's far shoulder and pulled him across the gap between the seats, then enveloped his thin frame in both arms, pressing his untidy mop of ginger curls into his chest.

Morse screwed his eyes shut and clutched fistfuls of Thursday's coat sleeve in both hands as sobs wracked his body. Tears soaked Thursday's white dress shirt and tie, but neither of them seemed to notice.

"Easy lad, easy," Thursday murmured, rocking Morse as best he could in the confined space. "Deep breaths now, don't make yourself sick."

Morse did his best to catch his breath, but each attempt left him coughing and choking until he retched.

Thursday shoved Morse's head between his knees and thumped him on the back until his breathing slowed, then pulled him back in for another hug. "You're going to be okay Endeavour," he murmured as the young man's silent tears continued to soak his shirt. "It's going to take time, maybe a lot of time, and it's not going to be easy, but you're going to be okay. And until you are, I'm not going anywhere."

Somewhere deep in his heart, beyond the pain and sadness, Morse felt a comforting warmth, a new feeling, like he knew he could trust his friend, like for the first time, he didn't have to be alone.


End file.
